


The First of November

by YourPalYourBuddy



Category: The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: F/M, Marriage Proposal, One Shot, goes with another few short things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 10:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8840656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourPalYourBuddy/pseuds/YourPalYourBuddy
Summary: Puck frees her hand and runs it through my hair, resting her palm by my temple. “You’re pushing yourself too hard,” she says. “Besides, it’s not even light out. It must be only four, Sean Kendrick, and you remember what you promised me, surely.”I do. “Stay in bed until six,” I say, and am rewarded with a smile. I smile myself. It’s only the shorter races in the morning. Surely I can sleep for a few more hours. I adjust so my feet are back under the blankets, and close my eyes.It is the first of November and so, today, someone will die.But it is not going to be either of us._________A few years after the events in the Scorpio Races.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory comment that I don't own these characters, sadly.
> 
> I'm on tumblr: @ivecarvedawoodenheart, come say hi!

**SEAN**

It is the first of November and so, today, someone will die.

I don’t open my eyes immediately. Images from races past wash over me like the bloody tide, pulling at my hands like they want to pull me down. A phantom breeze washes over my face and a phantom surf washes against my calves and my hands curve over phantom reins. My hand rests on a warm body and, for a moment, I can believe I’m touching Corr. Then she speaks to me.

“You aren’t getting up already, are you?” Puck murmurs sleepily. She gathers a handful of our blankets and pulls, giving my feet a cool kiss of morning air as the blanket goes over our heads. “Oof. That was a mistake,” she says, tucking her knees to her chest. She sounds indefinitely more awake now.

“I’m heading to the beach,” I say. I’m going through my morning list for Corr—change his wraps, muck out his stable, take him for a swim to rebuild his strength—and I can do it, if only just, if I start now.

Puck props herself up on an elbow and fixes me with an incredulous stare. Her hair is twisted into fantastic shapes, like those of clouds, and I swear there’s a running horse lurking just behind her ear. Strands of it are attached to our blanket tent. “You can’t,” she says simply. I reach out for her hand and she gives it to me, a smile flitting across her lips.

“Why not?” I press my lips to the inside of her wrist. I speak now with her skin against my mouth. “I have to start now. If I start now, I’ll be finished by the time the races begin.”

Puck frees her hand and runs it through my hair, resting her palm by my temple. “You’re pushing yourself too hard,” she says. “Besides, it’s not even light out. It must be only four, Sean Kendrick, and you remember what you promised me, surely.”

I do. “Stay in bed until six,” I say, and am rewarded with a smile. I smile myself. It’s only the shorter races in the morning. Surely I can sleep for a few more hours. I adjust so my feet are back under the blankets, and close my eyes.

It is the first of November and so, today, someone will die.

But it is not going to be either of us.

 

**PUCK**

Reporters flock the beach today, their camera bulbs flashing as they spot promising  _ capaill uisce _ . They swarm to the rich and powerful and take pictures of them doing rich and powerful things, like frowning dramatically at the rolling clouds, or scratching their bums.

Sean and I separate quietly at Dory Maud’s stand with a simple squeezing of each other’s hand. Dory Maud clucks at me as I approach, which immediately puts a scowl on my face.

“What?” I ask abruptly. I rearrange my teapots on her table, moving the more lopsided ones to the back.

“You and that young man,” she replies, and to my surprise she cackles “I never thought.”

“Never thought what?” I’m rather pleased that I manage to stop my reply here.

Dory Maud follows Sean with an amused eye. “I never thought you two would come true,” she says. “You two are a wish I never thought to hope for.”

I open my mouth, certain that there’s something I can say to this proclamation, but nothing comes. I give myself a few moments before closing my mouth in defeat.

“Ah, a silent Puck. There’s a strange sight,” Dory Maud quips. “What on earth are you doing to those teapots?”

“Some of them came out wonky,” I reply, glad to have something to say. “And before you say something about wonky and people being wonky—”

She interrupts with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “I wasn’t going to,” she says. “I was going to let your future babies do that for me.”

“Dory Maud!” My ears are utterly flaming, I can tell.

Dory Maud just shrugs, pleased with herself.

“I must say, I’d be intrigued to see those children myself,” a familiar voice says in a familiar broad accent. I look up and am unsurprised to see George Holly standing arm in arm with Annie, Dory Maud’s blind sister. He’s wearing a pressed green sweater and about half of Annie’s lipstick.

He’s also holding a gigantic paper bag from Palsson’s, which undoubtedly holds at least a dozen November cakes. Seeing them makes me think of Finn, who likely carefully selected each cake as if his life depended on it. That’s one of the things I’m most grateful for, that my winning the races meant Finn doesn’t have to apprentice with Thomas Gratton. Aside from being able to keep the house, and Sean keeping Corr, the fact that Finn doesn’t have to deal with blood every day means the world.

“Are those to share?” I ask, ignoring Dory Maud’s pointed look and Annie’s unfocused glare. Years of trying to survive on the kindness of others doesn’t go away that quickly. George Holly smiles widely at me pulls out three individually wrapped cakes.

“One for the both of you and one for Mr. Kendrick,” he says, which is strange, because I know he calls Sean ‘Sean’ and he knows I know he calls Sean ‘Sean’. I don’t worry on it, though; tourists never made much sense to me.

I thank him, hand one to Dory Maud, and head off to find Sean.

The crowd parts around me much easier this year. It’s a strange thing, this awareness. We acknowledge you, the movement seems to say. Curious eyes meet my gaze so frequently that I instinctively jut my chin and glare back.

It takes a little while to find Sean. There’s so much movement on the cliffs that I step back and let my eyes relax, the better to find a small corner of stillness. After three minutes I find him standing just off to the side, hands in his pockets, his face the same sharpness as the cliff face. He’s watching the short distance races with a politely distanced expression on his face, and I know it’s not just for show. Sean raced because he loved Corr. He doesn’t now because he still does.

I go up to him from the side, as I would with Dove if she was stressed. I’m not sure why. He doesn’t comment, instead taking my hand as he had this morning. His fingers play with the red ribbon bracelet he’d given me before we raced together.

I miss it sometimes. The exhilaration, the speed. But standing here with him, it’s enough.

 

**SEAN**

I’m not watching the races after Puck takes my hand. I accept her November cake, leaving the box in my coat pocket. I think she can tell how nervous I am, because she looks at me from the corner of her eye as the short distance races finish.

They’re calling all those entered for the real race to the starting line and I feel everyone’s attention taughten. Some look at the lineup and then at me and I can tell they’re wondering why I’m not racing. I tighten my grip on Puck’s hand. She runs her thumb across my knuckles.

I breathe in the sea, in the smell of Puck’s hair, in the sensation of her hand in mine, and I am so, so alive.

Then the riders are off.

It’s a bloodbath. The  _ capaill uisce _ in the middle are the ones I noted early in October, the ones whose riders are lazy or cruel or indulgent, the ones whose reins are just too loose and whose manes are covered in flowers and chains and bells. The ones who are hungriest, the most determined to return to the sea.

It’s over in minutes. It’s an eternity on the beach, but it’s over before I finish my November cake.

“Strange,” Puck murmurs. Her voice is like the sea, and it calls me back to myself. Her eyes mirror the color of the waves. “It seemed so much longer, when it was us.”

And I know at her words that I’m right. It couldn’t have been anyone else. I smile at her faintly.

She narrows her eyes curiously. “What?” I shrug, my usual response. She turns to face me fully, free hand on her hip. “No, what? What’s that face?”

“Will you marry me?”

I’m immediately horrified. This isn’t at all what I planned. She doesn’t reply right away, staring with her mouth slightly open at me. I’m holding a half eaten November cake, my jacket’s streaked with salt from this morning’s swim with Corr, there’s blood on the beach below, and this isn’t what I planned. I have no bread to give her.

She’s still not saying anything. I take my hand back and twist around to reach into the pocket on the other side, and pull out the little box. Puck’s eyes widen as I one-handedly open the box and sink to my knee.

The people around us have noticed now. Reporters point their cameras at us, and I hear excited whispers and our names echo around us as I say, “Puck Connolly. Will you marry me?”

Puck gives me a blazing look that’s belied by the tears streaming down her face and nods. She runs into my arms and knocks me over, laughing through her tears.

“Is that a yes?” I say, laughing slightly myself. I take the ring out of the box.

“Of course that’s a yes,” Puck replies. She wipes her eyes fiercely with her sleeve and I take her hand and slide the ring on.

I sit up, heedless of the reporters taking photos, and kiss her. My arms are full of Puck and my stomach is full of November cake and I’m getting her hair sticky with the honey and icing. And I hear someone that sounds suspiciously like George Holly call out, “What did I tell you? It’s a good thing you aren’t a gambling man, Mr. Kendrick, or you’d be out a lot of money.”

But I wouldn’t have cared.

Puck kisses me back, hard, and our spectators cheer. We ignore them. She smiles underneath my mouth.

It’s the first of November and so, today, our lives will begin anew.


End file.
